Dross looked about the place and shook her head. “Who lives like this?”
“Bachelors,” Cork said.
It was a brief stakeout. Dross drove a hundred yards farther into the tiny community and pulled off on a side street. She and Cork walked back to a ragged lilac hedge that separated the house of the landlady from hell and the next nearest dwelling. Through gaps in the hedge, they had a clear view of the garage apartment. In less than ten minutes, a man emerged from the grove of birch trees that backed the property, walked to the garage, unlocked the door, and went inside. Dross led the way across the yard and pounded on the door.
“I know you’re in there, Mathias. This is the police. If you don’t open the door, I swear to God we’ll break it down.”
She still had the key the landlady had given her, but Cork liked the bravado of her threat. If he’d been inside that garage, he’d have believed every word she spoke.
The knob rattled and, in the next instant, the door swung open.
The man who stood before them appeared to be about thirty. His narrow face was framed in hair that fell limp and oily nearly to his shoulders. His cheeks were deeply shadowed with stubble, his eyes bloodshot. Drops of mustard spotted his black T-shirt like a yellow rash. A smell came off him as if from a dirty laundry hamper.
“What?” he said angrily.
“I’m Tamarack County Sheriff Marsha Dross. This is my associate Cork O’Connor. We just want to talk.”
“About what?”
“The property you inherited from your uncle.”
“What about it?”
“Mind if we step in?”
He didn’t look happy, but he moved aside. The television was on, a video game paused on the screen. While Dross and the man talked, Cork studied the mess of the apartment more carefully than he had the first time they were inside.
“When was the last time you visited the property?” Dross asked.
“I don’t know.” He made a show of thinking, then shrugged. “Maybe two, three years ago. Was trying to figure if it was worth selling.”
“Did you ever pick blueberries in that special patch of his?”
“Sure, when I was a kid.”
“We found a woman buried in your uncle’s blueberry patch. Now your blueberry patch.”
“Like I said, I haven’t been back there in years.”
“That blueberry patch isn’t easy to find. Do you know anyone else who might be aware of it?”
“No.”
“Think about it a moment.”
He gave it brief consideration, then said again, “No.”
“You work the pipeline,” Cork said, lifting his eyes from the mess and focusing on the man who’d created it. “What do you do exactly?”
“A welder.”
“Worked on the pipeline long?”
“Since it crossed the border.”
“You’re not working now.”
“Not my choosing. Damn Indians.”
“What do you do when you’re not working?”
“Drink, play video games, wait for the all clear to get back to work.”
“Where do you do your drinking?”
“Here, mostly.”
“Ever go to bars?”
“Sometimes.”
“Ever been to the Howling Wolf bar?”
“Don’t know that one.”
“Why do you have a police scanner?”
“No law against it. Look, I’m kinda busy here.”
